


Designation: Hero of Duct Tape

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: All The Things a Growing Fanfictioneer Needs, Also Rose Is a Really Good Witch, Also a Few Confused Humans, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, By Which I Mean: Take Down a Prostitution Ring, Can Our Heroes Save the World?!?!?!, Demons and Angels, Epic Battles, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Haha Matrix Moment, He Will Make Posters Shortly, Humor, John Egbert Is Kind of a Jerk, Just All of the Trolls, Karkat Needs Better Friends, M/M, More Pairing To Be Added, The Underworld Is a Magical Place, There Is Totally Such a Thing as the Troll Police, Which Actually Might Save the World!, Wow This Story Needs Less Characters, alternating pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat Vantas and his friends sell security down in the Fourth Ring of Hell, and that's how you know they've all been making really great life choices.  Sollux does the tech, Terezi does the, er, paperwork, Gamzee does the getting quietly drunk and eating people who attempt to cite building regulation and well, let's not even go into what Karkat does.  No, really.<br/>Don't.  Go.  There.<br/>They are sent out to find and neutralize one suspicious element.  Some demon designated under the title: Survivor of Karma.  Sounds like a real piece of work, right?<br/>Ohhhh, Karkat, and you have no idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Designation: Hero of Duct Tape

“Hey, Karkat!”

Abruptly, the endless rows of bright orange cubicles ejected about half a tall, clattering being. Layered headsets, headphones, one bedraggled pair of 3-D glasses, and hair gel composed the creature; an office chair tilted back onto its rear wheels and a bony ankle held the tottering collection up. The man inside of the technology was named Sollux Captor. He had a self-admitted problem with authority.

His CO was in the process of storming through the cubicles. Karkat had passed Sollux’s workspace in a cloud of unfortunate cologne and fierce muttering. There were opportunities a self-respecting demon could let go of.

This was not one of them.

As for Karkat Vantas—the cologne was newer, and the fault of one Terezi Pyrope. The eternal rage, well, everyone had their theories. Terezi thought it was innate. Sollux vacillated between a Short Man’s Complex, seeing as Vantas was hilariously tiny, or a childhood of insufficient hugging. He went with whatever was likely to get the better rise out of his audience.

When Sollux repeated his shout, this time it got a rise. The answering howl crackled through Sollux’s headsets in earsplitting bursts. Sunrise Security’s second-in-command whirled around with bolts of dusky lightning spilled out of his skin, his face a spectral mask—flayed bone and grimacing smoke, but with teeth—eyes pits of the deepest, most ancient shadow. A network of red veins twined up one side of his face, down his neck, beneath his clothes, dyeing scarred, twisted claws the color of the plague bound in Karkat’s skin. Sure, Karkat Vantas was small—but the way a knife blade was small, more deadly for its sharpness. As for his shadow, it stretched up the walls and engulfed the floor, writhing anxiously because heh, the CO was about to lose his shit.

All this and more—reasons why Sollux loved the little fuckface. And baiting him.

As Sollux sighed, delighted, Karkat blinked color back into his eyes. In a much less theatric voice, Karkat fired back, “Fucking _what_?”

“Bad day in the dens?”

Karkat glared at him. Sollux grinned around a buttress of microphones.

“No, Captor, it was peaches and rotgut as always. I dance even now the jig of emotional fulfillment to be here, here in our thriving metropolis of _Hell_ , our little slice of sanctified suffering. And you know what? Spread the word! The punishment is over and we’re all being promoted upstairs in first class seats on some seraphim’s heavenly ass crack, now: WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“Got another mission for you,” Sollux answered cheerfully. His grin widened when Karkat swore. Man, nothing like spreading the hate. Sollux briefly consulted the appropriate headset—who had the short term memory for stupid shit like names and places?—and confirmed, “Kid designated the ‘Survivor of Karma’. Fourth hit, you know the drill.” He gestured with a flourish at Karkat, who looked torn between punching Sollux out (oh please) and pretending he’d never heard Sollux say anything so he could get started on the impressive maelstrom of paperwork his own cubicle strained beneath. Sollux waited, lips caught between his own, snaggly fangs, until Karkat slumped.

“Urrrrgh.”

“Atta boy,” Sollux gleefully exclaimed. “You want me to give TZ the specs so she can get started printing up a new batch of orders, or just wait for you to deliver the auspicious news yourself?”

“What kind of designation is ‘Survivor of Karma’?” Karkat muttered. A few papers rustled around him—Sollux felt the energy in the room lurching to accommodate the sudden inflow. Karkat pulled this shit all the time, so he didn’t bother to bitch, just let his CO continue rearranging the electrical grid until the air tasted like ozone and Karkat looked like the lowest level imp you could find. He had probably just fried most of the delicate machinery on this floor to turn himself into this pale-skinned, cat-eyed, short, harmless-looking drudge. He shoved his hands into baggy pockets and grumbled, “Sounds like some angelic asshat.”

“I’ll just go ahead and give TZ a call for you, okay?” Sollux offered, just to make the newly un-demonic Karkat glare at him. Yep, still cute. Sollux added in the spirit of generosity, “I’ll even tell her you’re still wearing that girly perfume of hers. That’ll cheer her right up.”

“Fuck you, Captor,” was what Karkat went with as he stormed off, already grumbling to himself about how much he hated the Upstairs Neighbor and how Gamzee just needed to go die for putting Karkat in charge of whatever idiocy the heavenlies had cooked up this time. Sollux watched him go, paying special attention to the seat of Karkat’s pants. Like the rest of his CO, it was worn ragged, looked susceptible to disintegrating in a small breeze, and was vastly insufficient to showcase the spectacular, perfectly-sculpted ass it contained.

Well, okay. That last one was exclusive to the pants.

_It’s good to be king_ , thought Sollux, as he kicked back to enjoy the view.

 

\----

 

Cubicles were for lower life forms. You know where you could find the badasses at? The offices. The Sunrise Security building was a big fortress, smack in the heart of downtown Fourth Ring Hell, most of it underground, but it was mostly composed of holding cells and barracks. Its actual offices—of which there were only three—were cordoned off behind mirrored glass and the best warding systems money could buy. The sigils etching them in place let out a grating hiss as Karkat’s demonic energy hit them.

A femme fatale named Terezi Pyrope listened to this with a smile. The first thing you’d notice about her was that smile.

Then you’d gradually pay attention to the rest and observe that yes, she was an extremely attractive demoness, once you got past the, er, sharpness of that grin and all the uncomfortable thoughts about how wide her mouth could open and the circumference of your skull. She was all slender muscle and liquid movement, and razor-edged to make these practices somewhat more acceptable according to local ethical guidelines. Terezi was the type of pretty who chose to dress entirely in clothing from the men’s section of the local thrift shop and cut her hair with the kitchen knife on slow weekends. Where she dwelt, men feared to tread and women feared to look.

Naturally, this had required a central location.

Terezi lounged in a spectacularly plush antique armchair that had once belonged to her boss, Gamzee Makara (as had the immaculate, well-ordered office around her). Her favorite cherry-flavored CO had just bulldozed his way through the double doors out of their building, topside. Around Terezi’s imported mahogany desk were an array of advanced video screens (ever so kindly donated by IT), showcasing security footage of every entrance and exit to Sunrise Security. Terezi tapped her claws against the designer lacquer of her desk, staring at the ceiling as usual, and scenting the information from the pixelated screens.

She was a born omniscient. She’d had her eyes burned out of her head as a child, but it had not prevented her from knowing everything about the assholes who did that to her and creatively arranging some personal justice.

Information about Karkat tended to smell especially delicious.

_Looking good today too_ , she reflected contentedly about her CO’s splendid posterior. Karkat was wearing what, for him, approached skinny jeans. They were only three sizes too large! Terezi appreciated the effort—oh, and was he wearing the cologne she’d chosen for him…? Mmm, _yes_. By the Deepest Ring, hell fucking YES.

He smelled like a popsicle.

Terezi Pyrope happened to like popsicles very much. Especially the cherry red ones.

Oh, there was an idea! She should make some underlings (so kind of them to volunteer themselves to her service) fetch her popsicles.

A chime rang through the office—dulcet and soothing, as the national orchestra had recorded for her, free of charge. Terezi snagged her pager and between her impressively throat-cinching teeth, a long green tongue slithered and indulged itself on the electric tingle of the screen. Ooh, it was lemon meringue! Tasted just like a rasping, prickly lisp that crawled in your ears and poked holes in your skull.

4LW4YS 4 PL34SUR3, SOLLUX. Terezi typed without bothering to look. Mistakes were for people who didn’t have the cringing terror of all of coherent reality gripped tight in her elegant fist. WH4T C4N 1 DO FOR YOU TH1S 3V3N1NG?

KK’2 on another mii22iion, 2o you 2hould add 2ome more paperwork two that 2tack. We 2hould totally 2ee iif we can make hiim cry again.

YOU SHOULD B3 4SH4M3D OF YOURS3LF, Terezi scolded. TH4T SOUNDS POS1T1V3LY W1CK3D. WH4T M4K3S YOU TH1NK 1’D H3LP YOU M4K3 OUR 4DOR4BL3 L1TTL3 K4RKL3S LOS3 H1S SH1T?

Across the hall, Sollux snorted a laugh. Terezi giggled along with him.

Becau2e you are good time2, TZ. Thiink you can make hiim 2iign the 2ame form liike, ten tiime2?

ON 1T, MY FR13ND. BR34K OUT TH3 POPCORN.

 

\----

 

As he edged out of the train station and furiously argued with the turnstile about whether or not he got to leave the station before he was fossilized and significantly calmer, Karkat Vantas was being mistaken as a hobo.

From twenty floors above him, through the long since caved-in magtrain station roof, he was easily observed through the target scope of an impressive sniping weapon. This hobo was the only person getting off at this station—clearly, because it had been shut down for decades. The crimson plague had hit the stations first and you had to be suicidal to go down there.

Or drunk. Probably drunk. They were _always_ drunk, if you asked the sniper. Drunk or high or downright unstable. He wasn’t even thinking about the train station anymore, because the hobo was headed for the sniper’s building, like an idiot. It took a special sort of person to visit a prostitution ring that wasn’t even legal in Hell.

It took an even more special person, this sniper was convinced, to sign up to guard that trove of highly controversial prostitutes and be so badass that there were a lot more dead idiots in the world, a lot less rescued angels, and a lot more paper going into said sniper’s bank account each month.

Of course, even had he still been working as a nobody in the local tax office, Eridan Ampora would still have been convinced that he was special. This was just the sort of person he was, along with being generally beautiful, classy, fashion-conscious, and all-around spectacular.

…Even if he had been assigned to cover the most boring, unused entrance to the brothel for three straight weeks because apparently his boss couldn’t take one little joke or whatever. Like Eridan really wanted to date _that_ , anyway. Pssh.

He leaned forward, aiming his gun. The hobo was attempting to climb over the turnstile and getting repeatedly electrocuted by the safety precautions. You weren’t supposed to board the train without a ticket. And in this case, you weren’t supposed to be fucking with a plague-carrying train station at all.

It was kind of funny, actually.

Eridan watched with the fascination of a man who’d been staring at deserted railway station and whose ass had been numb for a few hours now. His poor ass. It was just too beautiful to be squished flat in these crappy chairs. It might never recover if it did not depart from this chair so Eridan could go for a bagel or whatever.

That could wait. This hobo was actually kind of hot, in a bedraggled, begging for money on a street corner kind of way. Eridan was cautiously awarding him with a 4. He was in the process of deciding whether or not he’d be willing to tap that. On one hand, hobo germs. On the other hand, the hobo could withstand upwards of seven thousand volts, which had to count for something.

Eridan joggled his spectacularly oversized sniping weapon momentarily to seek his phone. Keeping an eye on the hobo’s ongoing battle with railway security, Eridan’s thumb flew. He logged onto the company IM and his screen lit up with a charming image of a squid rending apart a much smaller fish.

Oh good, the princess was back online.

Self-consciously, Eridan straightened out his perfectly tailored suit for a moment. Was he glamorous and the idealized specimen of manhood everywhere? Yes. Yes, he was. Applaud, all ye mortals.

Yo, Fef, howw’s it hanging?

The reply was instantaneous, which was gratifying. Keep your slimy bulbs fixed on the entry net where they belong and stop fucking distracting me from doing reel work. Lugosi has launched another surf war and I’ve got to pike off like three more of these sons of krakens!

_Hot_ , Eridan thought. Girl got game. Would be nice to get back to their shooting competitions as soon as he got taken off of Sexual Harrassment duty. He put his phone away and lifted his gun.

Oh shit, the hobo had made it through the turnstile.

 

\----

 

Karkat Vantas was now about 300% more crispy than he’d previously been, thanks to whoever had thought to leave the turnstiles active. And with absolutely unquantifiable levels of Pissed Off circulating through his lightly toasted system, he was now delighted to discover that someone was shooting at him.

He swore, which was more or less Karkat’s version of drawing breath, and flung himself to the side. His burned skin did not want to skid over a rocky field after prolonged electric tenderization, but as far as Karkat was concerned, his sorry hide could take a relaxing hike through the meandering wilds of Fuck You, indulge in the peaceful vista of I Give No Shits and then stroll merrily down the mountain while pursued by twenty raving, pitchfork-wielding villagers who took issue with this Frankenstinian abomination darkening their scenic areas.

So roll he did, only taking one bullet—shoulder, but seriously, fuck his shoulder—and then Karkat was behind cover and debating what would be the better option: fuck himself over by using up his Pulse, or fuck himself over by becoming a study in trajectory tunnels? Both of these were truly exciting options.

Blood was oozing sluggishly down his arm, which had already gone cold with a lack of feeling. Great, just great. That had better not be a major artery. Fuck all of this, Karkat just wanted to get inside and do his job. Was that too much to ask? He didn’t want to have to _think_ about his next move. No one should have to think about stupid things. And everything was stupid. It was hot out anyway. The gunshots were loud. He had a headache—oh, that was probably the sunlight.

Right. Karkat yanked his hood up against the glare of this Ring’s befouled facsimile of a sun, took a breath, and sprinted.

When Karkat sprinted, he looked rather like a lion racing down the savannah, glorious and free, impeded only by the fact that all its limbs had been amputated and replaced with roller blades. But it got the job done (graceless was an art Karkat had perfected into startling efficiency). He also got shot again, but he managed to stumble around the mines humming under the earth.

Mines. WHY WERE THERE MINES?

The mission specs had implied that the Survivor of Karma was waltzing around someplace at least moderately illegal, but it had said exactly zilch about MINES.

This place must have had some kind of protocol for entry, because otherwise it was flypaper. Fuck Sollux for withholding information. Karkat’s friends were all such bastards, and they were first on his list for the universal cull he prayed for each night.

The sniper had shot Karkat again, this time in the foot. These were the sorts of things you noticed when you were safely flattened to the target building’s wall, supposedly out of range of gun-wielding fuckheads. Either they had someone on the opposite wall, or the sniper was some kind of prodigy with recoil.

Karkat ducked low, prodding momentarily at the bloody gash. He decided that the sniper should be his friend too. The next time they met, Karkat would invite him to drinks, because why the hell not? This was his life. These were his friends. Every asshole below Purgatory was in love with him. His foot was bleeding kind of a lot.

But somewhere in the building Karkat was leaning against was the Survivor of Karma (still the fucking weirdest designation Karkat had ever heard). Sollux’s satellites had tracked his soul chip to this location, and since the Survivor of Karma had four unexpected deaths registered on that chip, he was Karkat’s problem. That was the drill; Sunrise Security was paid to protect this Ring, and Sollux monitored the information waves for any anomalies. Given that this was Hell, you could kill whoever you wanted—long as you followed the rules. If you didn’t, Gamzee’s lunatics got you. If you had too many deaths on your soul chip that weren’t registered but also didn’t overtly break the law, then it was Karkat’s job to rush in and play nursemaid.

He loved his job. He loved his job, and the fact that it was probably going to entail getting shot more.

That job that he loved so _much_ would have been much easier if Survivor of Karma hadn’t been what Karkat was increasingly sure had to be A) an illegal hooker, and B) guarded by the entire Army of the Damned. Walking through Station Black was the only feasible entry point Karkat had found. He’d taken it. He didn’t shirk his duties, even when it did mean a shitty four hour walk through an abandoned railway.

So now Karkat smelled like an unholy combination of piss and rust, and had probably picked up festering contagions just by breathing the air down there; all this and he was _still_ getting shot at. Also, getting shot, period—he didn’t have to get shot. He could knock those bullets out of the sky, or make his skin impenetrable.

But fuck if he was wasting hours of shuffling through the dark and stepping into things that belched and oozed away by activating his sorry excuse for a Pulse _now_.

So screw everything, from Sollux to the sniper to things that belched in the dark. Karkat was bleeding all over the place already! Ha! He didn’t even _need_ his fucking Pulse to deal with these _assmunching gun-toting affronts to dignity._

He slicked his fingers in his blood and shook them for a moment—nothing happened. His second attempt caught; with a grunt, Karkat forced a sleek crimson blade to pour itself from the droplets. It was a sickle, nearly as long as Karkat’s arm, with a beautifully serrated edge that made a sincere bid at Karkat’s foot before he caught it. In hand, it was just a natural extension of his bones.

_My blade. My bone. My only life._

Karkat whipped back one of his arms and slammed the blade against the stone. Cracks bloomed out from the point of impact. The second tore the stone apart and Karkat kicked the hole larger with his wounded foot—ow, shit, ow, this was the consequence of poor judgment—and heaved himself inside. No lights. The building hadn’t looked like much from the outside either. Like Sunrise, most of it was probably underground.

Karkat blinked into the pitch dark, waiting. His parents would be so proud. Just look at their spawn, squinting and attempting one of the five basic senses. A regular prodigy. Who deserved a medal? Why ickle Karkins, of course. Stupid night vision.

As he blinked and contemplated the miserable failure of his existence, Karkat became aware of the muted click of a cocking weapon.

“Fuck,” he declared, because this was an appropriate response to being held at gunpoint with zero sight and all your powers stuck up your ass.

“Fuck is right,” drawled a female voice. She sounded bored, and like the world needed to be shot a few times before she’d feel better about things. Karkat hated her immediately on principle.

“I can’t believe you tore through the _wall_ ,” said another. Male, and excited, as though rampant property destruction gave him a hard on. It probably did. Karkat hated him as well, marginally more. “What kind of hobo are you?”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no business posting this. I know how much of it I have written. I know this. I know how much time I have to write while my life takes big giblet-rich bites of my sanity. I knooooow this.  
> Butbutbut I really wanted to post this segment. If people get interested, heeeeeh? Heh? Totally working the bouncy eyebrows over here.  
> Besides, Eridan. I really have nothing further to say on the matter other than his name.  
> This fic has a pretty short plot, all things considered, but this chapter is so tame by comparison (major shit + fan), bros, and you can--if you wish to wait for me to stop hiding in other people's cupboards long enough to write some more--expect to see pretty much all the trolls and some of their ancestors. A fair number of the human kids will show up too, although perhaps not in the way you'd expect? Anyway, the outline to this thing got written at two in the morning after an eighteen hour drive. You absolutely should not expect sanity from this quarter.


End file.
